


histories

by sakon



Category: Ayatsuri Sakon | Puppet Master Sakon
Genre: Gen, Immortality, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:34:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26082013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakon/pseuds/sakon
Summary: He walks along a path, raking his fingers through his hair.





	histories

**Author's Note:**

> i genuinely don't know what this is,,, i kinda just wrote it for no reason. premise is basically sakon is immortal and he lives in the woods w ukon w a lot of yokai,,,

It's just above his neck. Then it's just above his shoulders, then it's below them and further, coiling and curling in the humid weather and more often than not, sitting messy when he wakes. There's nobody to say it has significance; not many people come and go from the residence deep within the woods, a distant gift from generations long past. People wander into them, searching for ghosts and spirits, then leave when they find them or when he leads them. They shouldn't stray from the beaten path, but they still do, even when knowing. Sakon has no problems quelling their fears, letting them pet his hair --- maybe just the children get to -- and leading the groups from the woods. They talk about technology, theology, religion. Others speak of experiences, their deepest fears and their first impressions of him. Ukon chatters among them, still as alive as ever as he steps over the thickets. He has to pick up his hair.

It drifts along the ground as he leads them away. Some days are fine enough to let it happen, sun shining and beaming, drying out the dirt. His hair is too long and thickly to keep in a bun, beyond his ankles. It grows for longer than he cares to recount, years reminding him of the distancing moon; he remembers the last time a little girl pet through his hair, a few months back. The months turn into years. Days into weeks. There are years when it feels like his bones have shriveled and others that make him feel more alive than other --- and he is. He still does the same as years past; detangling his hair, throwing on his formal clothes, leaving the ones he wore millennia ago in a tiny box along with Ukon's old yukata and other trinkets that seem too precious to carry. After a book or two and cleaning Ukon's body with utmost care, they walk along the roads, talking to spirits with skin paler than his own, locking eyes with the horrors he used to cower at. 

Now he greets them with a smile, gripping the fabric of his yukata as he forms a bow reminiscent of their own, then walks along the way. He shakes his head at the absurdist claims he hears as he walks the way, debates and games of go, the ghosts in the forest more domestic than he'd ever imagine. He watches the yokai frolic around his feet, joyful and warming; they are so small and so is he, but when they stretch their arms to the sky he can't help lifting and spinning them. Ukon can move on his own --- the energy of the forest grants him that -- but he refuses, only taking it upon himself when Sakon retires to sleep. Perhaps sentimental or simply grasping at disappearing straws, he does as they did in the old days, all without the regard of new technology and all the troubles they bring. They watch their troupe somehow thriving. Most don't remember their predecessors, but it doesn't rid him of the warm feelings that catch inside of his chest. Only few catch sight of him, the young and olds who are aware enough to know their name and stories. They're the same ones who still eat traditionally, untainted by the tendrils of society. Ukon agreed that they -- the few three --- make good conversation. One day, there'll be nobody to remember him. 

His hair drifts along the path, catching in the wind. Perhaps creatures like him have no need for hair, but he keeps it anyway. His fingers find their way through the thick strands, touching along them as he looks in a pond and catches his reflection. The only difference is his hair, long and coiling, face still unnaturally youthful. His cheeks bounce under his fingers, and he still makes the ladies who wander into his territory blush, eating him alive with their eyes. The new group comments of his hair, a child pushing pudgy fingers against Ukon, then touching the ends of his hair. It's a waterfall behind his back. He picks it up when stepping over a group of branches, murmuring to them, giving the children warning and praise. They leave eventually, and he retires to his futon. Ukon follows, mortal body of wood somehow warm in the winter night. He can't be cold, but he can feel the warmth of others. His hair catches in his old joints, and it reminds him of how truly old each strand is. 


End file.
